own thoughts consumed, spencer conceals bandaged gut with the spread of his forearm, the ache settled forged in the fires of adversity. it scorched his skin: that certain stitch’s ferocity pushes him to teeter on unstable feet. it dawned red in age, dried blood pigmenting the cloth, and to perceive it was to know a change in bandage was required ( but not among company ). spencer’s form proceeds to unceremoniously slump upon infirmary bed, grace & decorum forgotten in ailment. the act of getting up & down eased daily, & he hoped soon he’d have proper mobility to come & go as pleased. but mere months passed since the incident, and his desire was all too optimistic. spencer recognised the quietude between them --- himself & rosita --- they’d scarcely exchanged a word since his public gutting, perhaps it was destined to perpetually be that way, but spencer still had questions unanswered, a spirit alive in dire need of crushing, and lower lip is lacquered, a dispensary of conversation arose to mindset. ❛ i, uh --- was wondering... ❜ spencer began dubiously, honey hues cast away from her distant form. ❛ that shot at negan... you didn’t do that because of me, right? ❜
@rosient / sc.
